


Meanwhile, in Ala Mhigo...

by Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, One Shot Collection, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 07:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18774271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker/pseuds/Big_Spicy_Garlean_Fucker
Summary: A collection of little stories about life in the XIIth Imperial Legion while stationed in Ala Mhigo. Contains a metric fuckton of OCs, character development, and a bit of Zenos at some point. Also, my dude Lucius's canon backstory pieces are in here, too. Gotta write *some* filler, right? Bit of fluff? Maybe some spicy memes?





	Meanwhile, in Ala Mhigo...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Who the fuck handles Logistics and Supply around here?!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is about Lucius and his lads from the XIVth trying to settle in and chill a bit amongst the XIIth. They aren't used to the way things work here.

Lucius liked to consider himself a tolerant man. When his subordinates screwed up something or another, he would not ceaselessly berate them like the rest of Zenos's staff. Nine Pilii and three Tribuni, the whole lot of them stuffed up their own arses in the Legatus's absence. Not only do they loosen up when Zenos isn't around - they misbehave, blackmailing each other mere hours later with threats of snitching, stitching and woe. Such is the game they play for what entertainment they can get in Ala Mhigo, a dry and desolate hellscape for just about any sensible Garlean. There aren't even any savages to fight. But orders are orders, and thus they hold the fort.

Lucius doesn't care. He's off-duty now, sitting in the mess hall with his five Centurions and a handful of others eagerly inhaling today's lunch. Meat and bread floating in a thick red stew - it's nothing fancy, but it's better than starving. Lucius is halfway through his third bowl of the stuff when a shrill voice catches his attention. The man's accent is a southern Ilsabardian drawl, the complete opposite of Lucius's crisp tone from the capital. He turns to see a rather mousy looking fellow wringing his hands, fretting over what seems to be the table.

He raises a brow. "What?"

"Rem Batiatus! Oh, if only you knew!" The man shakes his head so dramatically it damn near falls off, dull brown hair falling before his eyes. "We're _so_ low on rations..."

Lucius turns back to his bowl and continues to eat. _'Bloody hell. Not this again.'_ His subordinates watch with interest, not one choosing to intervene. They trust his judgement, after all - and having come from the XIVth not one month past have little faith in the XIIth. Especially not the Quartermaster, who always seems to be pawning his work off to the more gullible soldiers. He's come to the wrong table today, and keeps whining.

"None of the other cohorts are in shape to go hunting, and-"

"Get the aan to do it." Lucius mutters, ripping a piece of bread in half with his teeth. "Mngh. Not my problem."

The Quartermaster stills, a cloud passing over his face. He starts gesturing again all too soon, even more animated with his conviction aflame. "You poor soul, you mustn't know! Here in the XIIth, we expect everyone to do their part, and out of all the others, your unit hasn't brought back supplies in _moons!_ "

"In _case_ you've forgotten," Lucius says in a clipped tone befitting his noble blood, "We only _got_ here four weeks ago, after losing the _entire rest of our Legion_."

"Well that's not _my_ problem, now, is it?" The Quartermaster barely suppresses a flinch at the look of raw _hate_ in Lucius's eyes. "No, my problem is the dwindling crates of meat and bread you lot seem to be so enjoying! You've had what, three bowls? Four?"

"Two and a half." Lucius growls, making a point of shoving a chunk of meat into his mouth and swallowing it whole. "What's your point?"

"I was _hoping_ you'd have a shred of honor, some sense of _duty_! But I see the Black Wolf seems to have raised some ill-bred mongrels among you."

The Centurions stiffen at that, along with the ten other soldiers lining the table. Lucius pauses, spoon to mouth which now hangs slightly agape. The Quartermaster, sensing his imminent demise, simply cracks a lopsided grin and waves a hand around.

"I'll forgive you for not knowing any better - I _am_ a compassionate man. There's plenty of game to hunt off to the west, just beyond the salt lakes. You'll be able to bring back plenty, I'm sure of it! I mean really, it's not that hard. And just _look_ at you, I'm sure you'll be glad for the exercise. What good is a soldier who sits around and eats too much without-"

"You _talk_ too much for a man who's about to be shot." Lucius draws his pistol left-handed and has it to the Quartermaster's temple in a flash. He's almost a whole head taller than the man, twice as broad and half as patient.

"Eh...?" The Quartermaster's eyes widen, white with fear. "N-now hold on just a-"

"You have five seconds to get the _fuck_ out of here before I eat your heart for dessert. One." The pistol clicks.

"T-this is _illegal_ , you - I'm going to tell Lord Zenos-"

"Two." Lucius tips his head up, peering down his nose at the man. The Quartermaster realises then that he's _deadly serious_ and takes a step back, the gun lowering to his chest. He's gone before Lucius can even get past three, not to Lord Zenos but to the bathroom. Lucius sits back down and sighs, leaving his loaded pistol on the table.

"What the hell is his problem...?" This is the first he's heard of any sort of ration shortage - why would they be out of supplies when they've had nobody to fight, and monthly shipments from Garlemald? He decides to ask about it, and spies a soldier wandering past that isn't one of his own.

"YOU!"

The man flinches ( along with about twenty others) and turns, standing to attention automatically. "Sir!"

"C'mere." Lucius beckons and the lad approaches cautiously, eyeing the gun on the table. "Name and rank."

"F-Filleraut oen Baisse, of the, the sixth, Sir!" He's shaking in his boots, this seven-fulm Elezen, much resembling a beanpole in a windstorm. "I'm s-s-sorry!!"

The Centurion beside Lucius snickers, and receives a flick to the arm in warning. He keeps quiet as the Pilus interrogates Filleraut, watching in amused silence.

"What's this I hear about your cohort being out of commission for ration hunting?"

Filleraut creases his blonde brows together, still quivering. "I- er, we ah..." He jumps then as Lucius slams his hand down on the table, words spilling from his lips unbidden. "Th-the others have a contest each moon to see who gets hunting duty..."

"Which others?"

"The Pilii, Sir! I heard they draw straws or something, please forgive me! I do not know!"

Lucius frowns. He is a Pilus of little renown, having been a mere Centurion just weeks prior. This is the highest rank he's ever been, and outside of standing to attention every Monday when the Tribuni give out their orders, he knows nothing of the other Pilii. To think that they would delegate such an important task to whoever drew the short end of the stick in a game of chance... It doesn't sit well with him. Where is the order, the propriety? It should be on a rotating schedule, adhered to by all and shirked by none.

Filleraut inches away the longer Lucius stares into space. The motion of his nervous hands snaps the Pilus's attention to him at once, however, and he freezes in place.

"When... is this contest undertaken?"

Filleraut salutes with his head bowed. "P-please ask rem Chauvinus at your earliest convenience!"

Lucius narrows his eyes. "Fetch him for me. Dismissed." Then he turns back to his stew, now cold, but still enough that he's unwilling to waste it. Filleraut sprints off to try and find his Pilus, praying to Halone that he won't be shot for interrupting the woefully temperamental man during his private hours. His cohort typically takes the afternoon guard shifts, expending more energy staying awake than actually defending anything.

_'Oh, I do hope he's not going to be mad...!'_


End file.
